


no matter where i go, i dream of home

by trellomonkey



Series: insomnia and ebony [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, chekhov's "i love you" crisis, it's still a coffeeshop au but let's be real folks let's be honest with ourselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trellomonkey/pseuds/trellomonkey
Summary: Ignis goes out of town for a week, and it gives him plenty of time to think, mostly about Gladio. Set nine months afterhe ain't no friend of mine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOPS I JUST COULDN'T STAY AWAY one last romp before I go back to "working on my degree" or whatever the hell that means
> 
> Set nine months after [he ain't no friend of mine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9307529/chapters/21094043).

Ignis, for all his self-affirmed poise and impeccable composure, doesn’t deal with notoriety well.

“They want to film a television spot,” he tells Gladio, his tone appropriately manic, thank you very much. Gladio’s watching him while he wipes down Insomnia’s bar, and by his expression, he’s unsure if he should resort to congratulations or sympathy. “They want me to do an episode for one of those cooking centric morning shows. The host _called me_ , like an actual telephone call, I didn’t think people on television had time for that anymore.”

“Did they give you a name?” Gladio asks before getting interrupted by a customer, giving Ignis enough time to a) wrack his brain and try to remember the man’s name and b) wallow in his existential uncertainty.

Gladio rings the order up and sends the customer on their way. Ignis massages his temples in soothing circles. “I think he said Dino? Dino… Dino Gallio, or—”

He starts when Gladio grabs his hand. “Dino Ghiranze? You got a business call from _Dino Ghiranze_?” Gladio’s eyes are sparkling and, really, can’t he see that Ignis is spiraling here? He should be more considerate. “Ignis, he’s a huge deal! He’s cooked for celebrities and shit, you gotta take the gig.”

“I mean, I know I have to.” Ignis says, and his shoulders slump. “Is it so much to ask for commercial success without all this additional fuss, though?”

Gladio brings his hand up to kiss it. “It’ll be _fun_ ,” he insists. Ignis rolls his eyes, but Gladio chuckles, undeterred.

So, it goes without saying that Ebony’s popularity is skyrocketing, and the same goes for Insomnia and the Oracle, simply by association. Ignis does the television spot at Gladio’s suggestion (“Iggy, baby! Can I call you Iggy?” Dino Ghiranze says as he sweeps into Ebony, and Ignis decides he’s never watching television again) and suddenly he’s got more customers than he knows what to do with.

He’s never been more thankful for the gap year Noctis decided to take to start saving up money, because he needs all the help he can get. Noct and Iris, who’s enjoying her sophomore year and the reputation that comes with being an assistant at _that_ Ebony, are the only things that keep him sane most days. Cindy’s got her work cut out for her over at Insomnia, but she seems to be taking to it like a fish to water, covering Gladio’s back with almost inhuman efficiency, and Prompto’s doing what he can as well, enjoying a higher pay rate as Insomnia’s social media consultant. He has to split his time, though, between Gladio and other clients around town, such as local business proprietors Ignis Scientia and Aranea Highwind.

“I’m calling it Sweet Stuff Saturdays,” Prompto tells Ignis, the spark of his childlike excitement still strong and unabashed. He scrolls through his phone, and Ignis can see a flood of heavily filtered photographs and selfies, all with _his_ food showcased. “The tag’s blowin’ the hell _up_ , dude! I’m gonna have it trending by tonight, just you watch.”

Ignis’s only solace (well, not his _only_ solace, because he still enjoys a comfortably close rapport with his employees and an _extremely_ gratifying relationship with his arch nemesis) comes in the form of Aranea Highwind, whose brand of dry humor and recreational pettiness fits his like a matching set.

Ignis hardly responds to the sound of a bell jingling these days. It’s not his responsibility to answer it while he’s at Insomnia, and it barely even means anything at Ebony anymore with how frequently it goes off, so he doesn’t bother to look up from the newspaper article he’s reading about his own restaurant. The text refers to Ebony’s décor as cute, and self-doubt tries to wring him out like a wet rag, because he’s not sure if he wants to aim for cute.

A letter, slit open and addressed to Aranea, hits the table in front of him, and he blinks.

She slides into the booth seat opposite him. “You check your mail yet today?” she asks, and Ignis recognizes Iris’s lovable handwriting on the coffee cup she’s holding, a sweet and looping declaration of _Aranea! (_ _･_ _ω_ _･)_

Truthfully, he hasn’t, and he knows that he should make a better effort to regularly pick up the mail that hits the floor of his empty apartment. He didn’t think to check yesterday, though, having made a beeline to Gladio’s after work, and a memory of earlier in the morning assaults him, warm sheets and fingers trailing across tattoos and Gladio’s mouth wrapped around his—

“Regrettably, no.” He says, squinting. “I left for Ebony straight from Gladio’s.”

Aranea makes a knowing sound and winks. “Well, possible eviction notices and overdue bills notwithstanding, you probably have your very own copy of that.” She points to the letter in front of him. “It’s from the good old alma mater.”

Ignis furrows his brow, picking the letter up to examine it. Like she’d said, his school’s crest is emblazoned in one corner. “Seems a little late for them to be hounding you about library fees.”

“Hey, that’s slander,” she says with a pointed look. “But no, it’s an invitation. They’re holding some big blowout wine and food festival for the 250th anniversary of establishment. I thought it was gonna be one of those stiff auto-generated letters, but they mentioned the Oracle and all the followers Prompto’s got us online and everything.”

“So they asked for you by name?” Ignis asks, admittedly surprised. Leaving college had been a strangely liberating process, and the idea that he might have also been specifically invited makes something oily and smug snake through his system.

Aranea nods, and she takes the letter from him, pulling it out from the envelope and unfolding it. “Free air fare, free hotel booking, all so they can show us off for a week at a fancy convention center and stick our names on some posters. We shake some hands, we speak on some panels, we act like we give a shit, and then we come home and feel good about ourselves.”

“Did you say a week?” Now, Ignis values his independence and his own complete sense of self, but it’s hard for a week away from the norm to not seem daunting. He’d have to arrange truncated hours for Ebony, brief Noctis and Iris on how to handle things while he’s gone, not to mention—

He tries not to think about Gladio, because he wants to be mature about this. Aranea senses his hesitation, though, and she grabs his hands across the table.

“C’mon, Ignis, you have to come with me.” She says, and Ignis notes that her nails are a pretty shade of blue today. “We can judge people and drink champagne we didn’t pay for. I need someone to look hot and derisive with.”

And yes, that sounds dreadfully tempting, mostly because he’s pretty sure he could go to a deserted island with Aranea and still find something to snicker about. Besides, he can’t deny that it’s legitimately a very good networking opportunity, loath as he is to say so. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to steel himself before giving her a smile. “Let me know what colors you’ll be wearing so I can pick out matching ties.”

She laughs and pats his hands excitedly. “Always one step ahead, you’re too good to me.”

* * *

 

He tells Gladio about the arrangement later that night in his apartment. He can hear how the proposition comes out of his own mouth, bewilderingly conflicted between genuine enthusiasm and abject dread in tone, and he’s surprised Gladio even knows how to respond.

“Hey, that’s great.” Gladio says, all proud smiles and gentle hands on Ignis’s waist. “Sounds like a blast. You and Aranea’ll have to take pictures, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in formal wear before.”

“I’ve never worn a bespoke suit in front of you?” Ignis asks, concerned. “That must be some kind of crime, it’s one of my best sides.”

Gladio shrugs. “I dunno, I’m kinda a fan of all your sides.”

He feels himself flush at the compliment, casual and without even a moment’s consideration. Deep in the confines of his chest, he takes note of a sensation he’s been experiencing more and more frequently as of late, like a pair of hands emerging from the darkness to squeeze his heart. He has no words for it, no explanation, and it’s particularly vexing considering how long he’d spent thinking his attraction to Gladio was actually revulsion. The worst part about being in a relationship, he’s decided, is all these amorphous and vague _things_ that don’t mesh with his style of thinking, all perfect measurements and immaculate geometry. The only thing he knows is that it’s new, and he only feels it around Gladio, and it’s oddly nice.

But in lieu of saying any of that, he instead lifts his hand to cup Gladio’s jaw, hoping it can convey even a fraction of it. “You’re the perfect cure for modesty, have I ever mentioned that?”

Gladio pulls him closer with a grin on his face. “It’s a talent.”

* * *

 

Aranea turns out to be right, as the entire affair is an exercise in self-congratulatory back patting and a celebration of the haut monde. To be fair, they’re sort of feeding into it by attending, but they feel somewhat entitled given how much money they both funneled into their respective and unspeakably anxious scholastic careers.

Aranea gasps from where she’s standing at Ignis’s elbow. They’re both sharp on their own, although Ignis is almost positive he’ll never see her in a dress again after this week, but together they cut a deliciously arresting image. “Ignis, look over there, isn’t that the department head you were talking about? The one who almost kicked you out of your program?”

He follows her gaze. “Ah, yes, Izunia. I heard rumor that he was under investigation for embezzlement, but I suppose things must have blown over.”

Aranea laughs. “Yeah, if some convenient donor generosity counts as blowing over.”

As is with most stuffy high society events, they feign nice with chairpersons and inquire shallowly into personal lives, _I’ve missed you so much_ and _you look like you haven’t aged a day_ and _how are the children?_

It’s not all bad, though. “Did I tell you about the whole uproar a couple months ago with the legacy investors?” Cor Leonis, a favorite professor for both of them back in the day, is a glittering diamond amongst dust and debris.

Aranea looks like she’ll be able to fuel herself for the rest of the year based on that single sentence alone. “You _didn’t_ and I’m _listening_.”

The whole conference kind of proceeds like that. They sit in as guest speakers a handful of times, they let men and women they barely recognize or remember throw their names around like they’re the _best_ of friends, bragging about all their accomplishments as if they’re personally responsible.

_Oh, you’re that Ignis Scientia! I’ve seen pictures of your pastries all over the internet! Such a talented artist, and so handsome, too!_

_Right, yes, I remember Aranea in class, always so bright and so promising, and look at her now! The Oracle’s just about the trendiest bar in anybody’s opinion!_

_You know, Mr. Scientia, my niece is a huge fan of your desserts, and she’s in town until the end of the month. I’ll have to forward along her phone number. Oh, I insist, she’d be so delighted to hear from you!_

_Aranea, your dress is to die for! You’ll have to give me the information for the designer. You’ve always been so stunning, I’m sure you’ve got somebody at home wrapped around your little finger._

They both manage to stay tight lipped and polite about it, but by the end of the day they’re both doubled over with uncontrollable laughter. They walk each other back to the hotel, Aranea barefoot and lightly swinging her heels in her hand, Ignis with his tie pulled loose around his neck.

Aranea winces with every step. “Yeah, this whole dressing up things sucks, I’m remembering why I stopped doing it so much.”

“True, but the thinly veiled envy sort of makes it worthwhile.”

Each night, they retire to their individual hotel rooms and bid one another farewell, sleepy goodnights and badly disguised yawns. Ignis had spied a collection of podcasts on Aranea’s phone during the flight, and he imagines it’s how she spends her nights, curled up with radio dramas or educational discussions lulling her to sleep. It’s a sweetly innocent hobby, and one of the many things he’s learned about her through rekindling their friendship. He elects to spend his nights reading, or positively crushing Noctis on one of those word game apps, and every evening, he briefly speaks to Gladio on the phone to recount to him exhausting but ultimately hilarious tales of mingling with wealthy academia.

He’s still got a full two days of ass kissing in front of him when he calls Gladio for the night.

“Hey, I meant to ask you, have you seen that black t-shirt I wear all the time? The one that’s sorta falling apart around the hemline?” Gladio asks him as they’re wrapping up their conversation.

Ignis pauses in undoing his cuffs to sift through his luggage. Lo and behold, there’s a shirt at the bottom blending in with the suitcase’s interior, much too big to belong to him and with small holes and distressed threading around the seams. “My mistake, I have it here. I must have accidentally mixed it in while I was packing.”

Gladio chuckles. “No, it’s all good, I’m just glad to know where it is.”

“Well, since it’s here, I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be confiscating it for pajama purposes.” Ignis tells him, sighing contentedly as he sheds the layers of his suit. “I promise I’ll wash it before I give it back.”

“Be my guest.” The conversation goes quiet for a moment or two, and Ignis fishes the shirt out from underneath his own clothes. The fabric is slightly worn from multiple washes, and he can see why Gladio likes it so much. Then, quieter, like Gladio almost wants him to miss it, he hears, “I miss you.”

It stalls something inside of him, and he looks at his phone, his heart thumping in his throat. There’s that feeling again, a vice or a grip or a tourniquet trying to stem the flow of his affections, but failing miserably. “I miss you too,” he says, even quieter, and every vein in his body thrums with the candid truth of it.

He can almost hear Gladio’s grin. “But only two more days, yeah?”

“Two more excruciating days.” Ignis replies, his laugh sounding breathless in his voice.

“Then you should get some sleep to try and make it more bearable.” Gladio’s right, and he knows that his body is tired, distantly. He recognizes the drifting feeling of being so close to sleep, but his mind is blindingly awake now, and restless. “Text me in the morning, alright?”

“I always do,” he says.

Gladio's tone is fond. “Right. Night, baby.”

The endearment makes something inside of him light up happily. “Goodnight,” he replies, and the call ends, his phone going dark. He stares at it for a second or two, willing himself to feel drowsy even in the slightest, and eventually he gives up. The only thing he can feel is his own thoughts racing, and that tightness he’s grown accustomed to, plaguing him like a fond memory.

He looks down at the shirt in his hands and figures he’ll get into bed and hope for the best.

He finishes undressing, stripping down to his briefs, before pulling the t-shirt over his head, and oh, _yes_ , it totally makes sense why Gladio was looking for this. It’s soft and it’s light and much bigger on Ignis than it is on Gladio; where the sleeves normally hug Gladio’s biceps, they’re a bit looser around Ignis’s, and the bottom hangs low around his hips. If nothing else, he’ll have something comfortable to lie in while he struggles to fall asleep.

Ignis slips off his glasses and shuts the bedside light off, flopping onto the mattress with a groan. It’s not nearly as nice as the bed he has at home… which is what he thinks first, before realizing that he’s actually referring to Gladio’s bed, mentally. It’s not as plush and the sheets aren’t as smooth, but it’ll do for the time being, even with all he’ll grumble about it later. He closes his eyes, determined to at least give sleeping a try, and breathes in steadily through his nose when a familiar scent crests over him like seafoam on a shore.

He cracks one eye open, curious. He lifts the neckline of the shirt up to his nose, because it’s not like it could have come from anywhere else, and the scent hits him full force again, notes of cologne and shampoo and a scent that’s just _Gladio_ , plain and simple. Ignis breathes in fully, and he groans like he’s drowning in it, idly registering the low flame that’s sparked within his abdomen.

 _Not really sleeping, Ignis_ , he thinks, but he also frankly doesn’t care, stoking the coals within him with abandon as he draws in more of that scent. He remembers the way Gladio’s voice had sounded, blurred around the edges and deep, when he’d said _I miss you_ , and it leaves Ignis feeling cavernous, and sorely wanting. His hand begins to trail down his stomach, slowly, enticing, and he tries to imagine that voice above him, a rumble and a press of lips against his ear.

His fingers reach the band of his briefs and he pauses. The tempo of his breathing has kicked up, his body overwarm by the slightest amount, and in a brief flash of self-consciousness, he considers retreating. He could still roll over stubbornly and force himself to rest, but the smell of Gladio is overwhelming him, floating into his senses and curling up inside his brain, and he can almost imagine Gladio on top of him, bearing him down, eyes dark and endless and burning at the edges with desire.

Ignis moans quietly as his hand slips between his legs, palming his cock, already half-hard through his briefs. His eyes slip shut as the scent overpowers him, and he draws his legs up for a better angle, tries to imagine it’s Gladio’s hand. His fingers are more slender, but they get the job done, sliding with agonizing slowness from the root to the tip and back down, his hips unconsciously undulating into it.

He wonders what Gladio would do if he caught him like this, what he would say. The thought thrills him, imagining he’s back home, touching himself in Gladio’s bed, panting and moaning with Gladio’s shirt rucked up around his stomach. Would he be unable to control himself, pin Ignis to the bed, fuck into him fast and mercilessly and make Ignis scream his name as he comes? Or would he back up against the door, eyes shining and mouth pulled up in a smirk, and make Ignis finish while he watches?

 _Yeah, that’s it_ , he can almost hear, the thought of Gladio’s voice sending jolts through his body, _keep your eyes on me, gorgeous, look at me._

Ignis whines, and he flips over, desperate for the best vantage to fool himself, to solidify his fantasizing. The scent is all-encompassing and hypnotizing, and he lies against the mattress, face against the sheets with his hips canted up and his hand between his legs. He keens as he feels wetness start to spread from the tip, and he bucks into his hand. Part of him is frustrated, part of him feels like an overenthusiastic teenager and not a grown man with a decently healthy sex life (well, alright, maybe that’s a _bit_ of an understatement, more like a younger Ignis could never have even dreamed of the kind of sex he gets now.) He brings his free hand up to bite at his knuckles, trying to stifle the moans that are spilling from his mouth unchecked.

But he can imagine Gladio sliding his hands down Ignis’s back, rough and strong and leaving trails of electricity in their wake. _Don’t hold it in_ , he’d breathe against Ignis’s ear, _I wanna hear you, you’ve got the prettiest voice, I wanna hear everything_.

Ignis pants harshly against the mattress, whispering, “ _Gladio_ ,” before he decides that this is fucking _enough_.

He slides his underwear off his body, almost frenzied in his movements, and discards them on the floor as his hand rummages around the side pockets of his suitcase. He keeps one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, partially to keep himself from grinding into the mattress and partially to stave off the inevitable, and finally finds the bottle of lotion he’s looking for.

He hasn’t done this for himself in a while (Gladio particularly enjoys it, drawing it out, making Ignis twitch, watching the way each miniscule motion pulls sounds from him) but he reaches behind himself, takes a steadying breath. He has to blink the spots from his eyes as he reminds himself how Gladio does it, and he rubs over his entrance slowly at first, teasing motions that turn his breathing into harsh puffs. He starts working his cock languidly with one hand while his finger sinks in, its pace _maddening_.

Ignis’s eyes flutter shut, his mouth open around a groan. Gladio’s fingers are so much _bigger_ than his, and the stimulus isn’t quite enough, just on the edge of satisfying. He pulls out and pushes back in with two fingers this time, and he hisses, but it’s so much _better_ , so much more substantial. As he starts thrusting them in and out of himself, his hand on his cock moving more liberally now, his hips seem to try and roll into both points of pleasure at once.

He can still smell Gladio’s shirt, and it’s completely entranced him, feeling mindless and drunk with the intoxicating scent of it, all rich notes and traces of his lover and—“ _Gladio_ ,” Ignis moans, stretching himself to three fingers, “more, more, _please_ , Gladio.”

In his mind, Gladio’s hovering out of reach, tantalizingly close and he _knows_ it. _That’s right, just like that, you’re doing so good for me_ , and it spurs Ignis’s hand to move faster, to thrust deeper, until he’s writhing and gasping, legs knocked apart, ass high in the air, cock soaked with how close he is.

He vividly envisions a rough hand pressing against his chest, Gladio moving to lean over his back, draped across him, and a voice, the low bass of it touching every nerve ending in his body, the hottest thing Ignis has ever heard, commanding him. _Come for me_

The hand on his cock slips in tempo and his thumb slides over the slit, and he comes with a strangled cry, the force of it shaking him and reaching out to fill his entire body with tingling warmth. His dizziness overtakes him, struggling to gather the details of his situation (in a hotel room, alone, or _lonely_ , more specifically) and he groans, the strength of his climax leaving him pliable and bone-tired. 

Ignis pants, his vision swimming in the darkness, and Gladio’s voice sounds muted to him now, _you did so good_ and _I’ve never seen anything as amazing as you_. He thinks of Gladio’s face as he tries to catch his breath, the way his stubble feels under Ignis’s hands, the way he lights up when Ignis walks into a room, the glassy, almost reverent look he gets in his eyes after he comes, almost like Ignis is the most awe-inspiring thing that’s ever happened to him.

Ignis sighs against the sheets, his eyes sliding shut. “I love—” And then he downright _freezes_.

All of a sudden, reality comes crashing back around him, his hotel room, Aranea down the hallway, the stupid conference, and most of all, himself. His hand and the sheets underneath him are sticky, he can feel strands of hair plastered to the sweat on his forehead, and he did _not_ just almost say that to _literally nobody_ while jacking off like a high schooler.

He growls, pushing himself up and tugging off Gladio’s shirt. “Absolutely fucking ridiculous,” he mumbles, and marches over to the bathroom.

The shower he takes is cold, and he tries to keep his thoughts from wandering, but it’s hard. Sure, he has a tendency to be emotionally unintelligent, but is that seriously what he’s been feeling this whole time? And he couldn’t _identify it_? The weight of it presses down on him and he has to will the panic away, turning the shower off.

And how can he be sure he’s telling himself the truth, anyway? It could be indigestion, or a tapeworm, or maybe a heart attack really long in coming, having tried to warn him for at least a month. Ignis towels his hair off and strips the top sheet of the bed, content to sleep with the quilt for the night. His eyes catch the shirt again, discarded against the pillows, and he hesitates. He could always throw it back in his suitcase, forget about it, give it back like nothing happened. He wouldn’t have to think about it, pulled up to his nose while he breathed Gladio’s name, he’d be able to push it out of his mind.

But he doesn’t do that. He picks it up, the innocuous black t-shirt, and now, he can kind of smell himself on it, too, or at least the cheap hotel soap he’d been using. With a grunt, he pulls it over his head and climbs into bed, curling in on himself angrily, and uncertainly.

But it still makes him think of Gladio, tucked in behind him, and he can’t deny that that brings him some peace.

* * *

 

The last two days of the conference, Ignis is cranky.

Aranea pulls him off in the middle of the second day, escaping to a nearby grill joint for lunch and a sorely needed distraction from all the handshaking and pained smiling. He’d been lost in thought at the convention center, and he’s still lost in thought at the grill, but at least it’s quieter here, and there are no expectations, and he can share something inelegant and greasy with Aranea before going back to surviving on finger foods.

Aranea regards him carefully across the table. “Okay, I have a wager for you.”

Ignis wrests himself back to the present. “Is that so?” he replies, trying and failing to sound interested.

But Aranea simply nods, picking the stem off a cherry from her martini. “Yep. Here’s the bet.” She holds the stem out in front of her. “If I can tie this in a knot with just my tongue in less than ten seconds, I get to ask you a question, and you have to answer.”

Ignis is only mildly taken aback. “Why would you—” But as he speaks, Aranea pops the stem in her mouth, and after only a second or two of moving it around back and forth, she pulls it back out, presenting the knot with a smirk on her face. He sighs, because even if he hadn’t technically accepted the terms, he’s pretty impressed. “Fine. Ask away.”

“What the hell’s got you looking so pissed off?” She asks, all humor fleeing her tone. “Aside from the usual, of course.”

He frowns. “Aranea—”

“And look,” she interrupts him, spreading her hands out palms-up, “you could lie to me, and I would be none the wiser! I get that. But the only person you’d be fucking over is yourself, in my opinion.”

“It’s not something you have to worry about, I’m fine.” Ignis huffs. “I’m sorry if I’ve behaved unpleasantly, but it’s childish and it doesn’t warrant discussion. I’ll try to mind my manners for the rest of the trip.”

Aranea’s eyebrows are drawn together, her gaze searching his face. “Sure. Fine. If you don’t wanna talk about it, I can’t make you, but let me say one more thing and then I’ll drop it.” She folds her hands and locks eyes with him, severity laced in every syllable she utters. “I know you and I haven’t been friends even a year yet, but I think you’re pretty fucking cool. I like hanging out with you, and I’d hope that you’d be able to trust me with dumb friend shit when it comes down to it. But if you don’t, that’s your prerogative, and I get it.”

She sits back and sips at her drink, content to drop the discussion there, but her words stir Ignis. Now he can add guilt to the already awful compendium of emotions he feels, because he does appreciate Aranea and the way she treats him like none of his other friends do. He trains his eyes on the table in front of him as he feels his hand slide up to rub his neck, and he registers in the back of his mind that it’s a tick he’s picked up from Gladio.

“I think I…” But his words fail him, and he bites his lip. Vocalizing it any more than he has feels too raw, too intimate. He’s not ready to look it in the eyes just yet.

But Aranea leans forward. “Out with it, Four Eyes.”

Slowly but surely, he’s able to bridge the distance, and he explains himself to Aranea. He explains the conflicts, and the confusion, and he carefully omits the more explicit, self-exploratory segments, but he gets down to the emotional core of it. To her credit, she listens attentively, nods in all the right places, and when he finishes, she tilts her head.

“So,” she starts, a frown beginning to form on her face, “wait, that’s a bad thing?”

The breath he lets out is hard, exasperated. “ _Yes_ , it’s a bad thing, because it could be anything. It could be me overanalyzing things, it could be me overreacting, it could be me,” he struggles to express himself, hands frozen in the air in front of him, “I don’t want to do that to him. If I’m wrong.”

He can’t bring his eyes up to meet her, too inwardly frustrated to consider it. As the whole of it floods out of him, it leaves him feeling hollow, and unsure of where to go now. It’s scary.

Aranea’s voice is quiet, though. “It could also just be how you feel.”

The notion shifts him, only slightly, and when he looks up, Aranea smiles and taps him on the forehead.

“You’re too smart,” she says. “You think way too much. Give it a rest before you blow a blood vessel.”

 _I think too much_ , he thinks, thoughtfully, _I think that’s ludicrous_. And then, he looks at the evidence, because _really_. She hasn’t known him as long as his other friends, but sometimes, a degree of separation is necessary to see the bigger picture. Incidentally, in this situation, the bigger picture is… actually not so big. It’s small, and it’s familiar, and it sits inside the cage of Ignis’s heart, beating a steady drum against his ribcage. He can let it out if he wants. He can sit with it, just knowing it’s there.

And that’s reassuring, in a way.

“Alright, break time’s over.” Aranea downs the last of her drink in one gulp, and then smiles at him. “I’ve got a panel to sit on and you’ve got a panel to attend, specifically mine. Let’s get a move on.”

He follows her, and does as he’s told, attending her panel and watching unobtrusively from the back of the hall. When it comes time to clap, he claps, and the host thanks her for her time and wisdom, and from up on the podium, she winks at him, and he winks back.

* * *

 

The flight back, because life hates Ignis and wants to see him die a slow death, is hell.

It’s long and it’s delayed by an hour and it’s uncomfortable and it _sucks_ , and he’s pretty sure both he and Aranea are ready to never travel again by the time they land. They share a taxi from the airport, and at some point Aranea pats him on the shoulder with a grunt in way of saying _see you later, I had fun, can’t wait to see you around the neighborhood sometime soon!_ He gives the driver his address, and halfway there, he hazily realizes it wasn’t _actually_ his address.

But whatever.

Gladio had left the door unlocked, knowing Ignis was on his way home and he’d still have a couple hours of his shift left before he could be there. Ignis is infinitely grateful for it, and though it’s against his normal practices and beliefs, he leaves his suitcase by the door (though not in the way, because that would be a hazard) and hones into Gladio’s bed like he’s being pushed by a motor.

He collapses face first with a grunt, the luxurious pillows already knocking him halfway to unconsciousness. He manages to toe off his shoes before gathering up the blankets, burrowing in like it’ll be months before he wakes up again. He can feel himself fading, but his mind wanders to his conversation with Aranea, and the new reality of his own soul. He finds when he muses on it now that it’s not so suffocating, and that it’s actually something of a quiet promise, like he’s never been more in tune with himself as he is now that he knows.

But he’s only able to think about it for a minute or two before a welcome and unrelenting sleep grips him, pulling him down into darkness.

 

 

He’s not sure when he begins to blearily come to (if you told him it’s been five years, he’d probably shrug and accept it) but he knows that the first thing he focuses on is a strong back a few feet away from him, tattoos Ignis has memorized and a broad set of shoulders visible from underneath a tank top. He’s rummaging in the bathroom, trying his best to keep quiet, and Ignis would move to get up and greet him if not for the terrible crick in his everything.

Instead, he elects to mumble, “G’morning.”

Gladio jumps, and he swears as whatever he was fiddling with clatters into the sink. He throws a sheepish smile over his shoulder, and Ignis muses that he’s enormously endearing. “Sorry, I was trying to keep quiet.”

Ignis tries to shrug, but it doesn’t really translate given how far he’s buried into the mattress. “You were. I’m just here now.” He squints against the bathroom light, perhaps a bit too bright in his eyes. “Do you have the time?”

“Around ten.” Gladio tells him, shutting off the light. The bed dips under his weight and it makes Ignis purr, the sudden proximity of him, and Gladio kisses him. “I closed up early to come see you.”

“How very sweet.” Ignis says. As he tries to move into some semblance of a sitting position, an ache shoots up along his back and into his neck before bouncing back down again, and he flinches. “I tried to sleep on the plane but it went about as well as you’d expect. Babies and turbulence and all, the usual suspects.”

Gladio’s hand runs through his hair, and Ignis's eyes slide shut. “Is it just your back?”

“More or less.”

Gladio kisses him on the cheek. “Alright, give me a second.” Ignis doesn’t open his eyes, only hums his assent to whatever Gladio’s got planned because he’s sure it’s stellar, whatever it is. The bed shifts, and Ignis can feel something against the back of his legs, not so much a weight as a presence, and he realizes that Gladio is straddling him, both of those powerful thighs on either side of his hips.

Ignis chuckles, ready to make some smart-alecky quip about it, but as he goes to, Gladio’s fingers knead into his back through his shirt, working at the aches and twinges in his shoulder blades, and the sound morphs into a long, low groan.

Gladio laughs, and Ignis gasps as he works at a particularly stubborn knot on his right side. “That’s the loudest I’ve ever heard you react to anything, and I’ve wrung you out a couple of times.”

Ignis cracks one eye open to glare at him. “Gladiolus Amicitia, you let me enjoy this.” As if on cue, Gladio’s hands massage into the small of his back and he moans, his toes curling with the satisfaction of it.

Ignis progressively melts under Gladio’s hands, his body only a degree touch-starved after being away for a week. Gladio peppers kisses against the back of his neck, whispering into his ear, mumbled litanies of _I missed you_ and _I’m so glad you’re back_. Ignis is almost positive he could let the whole scene swallow him, bliss practically pouring into his body through Gladio’s fingertips.

The pain in his back eases, and he sighs, trying to ward away the lure of sleep, because Gladio’s finally with him again and he doesn’t want to pass out and miss it. As Gladio’s hands retreat, he whines in the back of his throat, flipping himself over underneath the other man’s frame.

Gladio, disquietingly, is frowning.

Ignis sits up, a brush of anxiety bringing him back to cogency. He takes Gladio’s face in his hands. “Is something the matter?” he murmurs.

Gladio smiles, though, and he shakes his head apologetically. “No, it’s fine, I’m just, uh… being dumb about something.” He leans in to kiss Ignis, tender and sweet and everything Ignis has been missing, but when he pulls away, his eyes immediately dart down to his hand. Ignis follows his gaze, but all he can glean is that Gladio appears to be holding something. Ignis swallows. “I was hoping I could talk to you. It’s… it’s sort of serious, I guess.”

Ignis feels doubt begin to tug at his heartstrings. That sounds suspiciously like the kind of language people use when they’re unhappy about a relationship, but all of the evidence he has at his disposal would suggest otherwise, so what gives? “You can talk to me about anything,” Ignis says, because it’s the truth, wholly and completely, and gratitude waves through Gladio’s eyes amidst the hesitance.

Gladio fidgets. “See, there’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while. When we were on the phone and you mentioned that my stuff got mixed in with yours, I looked around and,” a laugh escapes him like it’s a surprise, “I mean, you’re all over. Everywhere I can see.”

Now that he thinks about it, Gladio’s right. Ignis can see it, too, his own territorial markings all around Gladio’s apartment. Their record collections have been consolidated into one slightly overflowing box, and his clothes are everywhere, hanging in Gladio’s closet or folded in his drawers. His books have (somehow, despite the bookshelf’s complaining) joined Gladio’s and a number of his baking utensils now inhabit Gladio’s kitchen. The more he ponders it, the more it dawns on him that he hasn’t spent more than a night at a time in his own apartment in months. More days than not, he’s with Gladio, reclining on his couch or lazing in his bed, spread out like he owns the damn place.

Self-awareness and shame hit Ignis like a truck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had insinuated myself so much into your space.” He’s not sure what Gladio’s next step is. Does he want time to be spread more equally between their apartments, or does he want Ignis over less? Is this the kind of thing Gladio would pull the plug for?

But Gladio’s eyes widen. “No, what? Ignis, no, no.” He kisses Ignis again, and this time it’s harder, like a stalwart promise. When he pulls back, he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not explaining this well, so, uh.” And instead of continuing, he opens his hand, the one that had been clutching at something so mysteriously.

There’s a small yellow envelope there, and the corners of it are bent, the creases coming undone slightly as if Gladio’s had it for a while, has fussed over it from time to time. This is clearly something he’s been meaning to bring up for much longer than the conference, and Ignis’s gaze flits up to him. Gladio’s watching him, his lips thinned nervously, and Ignis takes the envelope out of his hand.

He opens the flap, and when he tips it, a silver key slides into his palm like it belongs there.

They’re both silent for what seems like ages, Ignis staring at the key and Gladio staring at Ignis. His brain is struggling to process this, the pieces of it not exactly coming together, but he feels that sensation, the one he’d only recently identified and put a name to, well up to nearly overflow him. His fingers close unsteadily around the key, and he meets Gladio’s stare.

He can’t help the almost imperceptible tremble in his voice. “You want me to—”

“Not if you don’t want to!” Gladio bursts, his hands moving to rest on Ignis’s waist comfortingly. He’s panicking, backtracking, trying to ease the pressure before anybody gets hurt. “Seriously, you won’t hurt my feelings if you say no, I’ll just keep it as a spare if you don’t want it, o-or you can keep it and use it to get in when I’m not around, but don’t feel like you have to—”

Later, Ignis will chuckle when he notices their penchant for interrupting one another at only the most crucial parts of their relationship, because he yanks Gladio in for the most stunningly perfect and immediately reciprocated and joyfully charged kiss they’ve ever shared. Gladio pulls Ignis into his lap, and Ignis wraps his arms around Gladio’s neck as he breathes a definitive and wholehearted, “ _Yes_ ,” against his lips.

Gladio pulls back to meet his eyes. His expression is so open, so hopeful, and Ignis is so _fond_. “So, you… really? Really, you mean it?”

Ignis laughs, ducking in to kiss him again because he can’t resist. “I’ll call my landlord in the morning,” he says, and his hands move to frame Gladio’s face again, thumbs caressing his cheeks, “but yes, _yes_ , I’d like that very much.”

And Gladio moans as he surges to kiss him again, and Ignis wants to remember the sound until the day he dies. He lets himself get pushed down against the bed, elated to have Gladio over him again, around him, holding him, and Gladio growls playfully when he says, “Welcome _home_ , baby,” against Ignis’s lips. Ignis hums happily, lets Gladio lick into him and mark up his neck, groaning all the while as Gladio sets to work divesting them of their clothes and taking Ignis apart with his hands and mouth.

Ignis loses himself to the sensation of kissing Gladio and thrusting into the hand that grasps his cock, and he huffs with frustration when Gladio pulls away, digging around in the nightstand.

Gladio’s face is pensive, his brow furrowed. “Come the fuck on,” he mumbles, “did I seriously not pick up condoms, what the hell was I doing, I had a whole fucking week.”

And Ignis, in a rather spectacular moment of absolutely zero forethought, intent to get Gladio’s attention back on _him_ and _them_ and the awesome, heavenly lovemaking he’s been craving, starts saying, “We don’t have to use—” before his mouth grinds to a screeching halt. Gladio’s gaze snaps to him, somewhat disbelieving but clearly fraying at the edges with abrupt and voracious desire. “Um.”

Gladio watches him, and Ignis would almost guess that he’s not breathing, with how still he is. “You can take that back.” Gladio tells him, despite the notion having clearly settled in his mind and almost knocked him out cold with how badly he wants it. “I won’t mind. We don’t have to.”

The offer is nice, but the more Ignis thinks about it, the more fucking ridiculous it is, too. Honestly, it wouldn’t be the worst thing he and Gladio have done, and as he imagines it, he starts feeling lightheaded with the familiar desire to be _filled_ and fucked open. Gladio’s dick is thick and eager to meet that demand, and his balls hang heavily between his legs, and Ignis blinks hard before his own thoughts can turn him into a panting, moaning mess.

He rolls his eyes to try and save face. “I’ve been waiting a _week_ for this, Gladio, I won’t be deterred by some additional cleanup.” He pulls Gladio down to kiss him, hot and sensual, wet with tongue, and when he pulls back, he mutters, “And I saw the way you looked at me when I even _implied_ it. It’s all you can think about now, isn’t it?”

Gladio’s eyelashes flutter, his hand flying down to circle the base of his cock. “Fuck,” he breathes, and he presses his forehead against Ignis’s, “we should probably, uh. Do you… do you mind flipping over?”

Ignis kisses him sweetly. “For you? Never.” Gladio gives him space to get on his knees, but he dives in at the first opportunity with his hands on Ignis’s thighs, trailing kisses down his back. Ignis watches him over his shoulder. “I should have known I’d be spending most of tonight face down.”

Gladio laughs as he slicks his fingers. “The surprise is the fun part, though. Anticipation, that’s just agony.”

“You’re telling me.” Ignis mumbles, but it’s bulldozed by a moan as Gladio’s finger slips into him. “ _Fuck_ , I missed that.”

He knows that Gladio likes to hear him swear, likes to hear how his voice wraps around the vowels, and his reward is an expertly crooked finger, the tip brushing his prostate the way his own fingers couldn’t perfectly reach, and he keens, his hips pushing back into it. Gladio sucks marks against the insides of his thighs as he opens Ignis up, torturing him with slow thrusts of his thick fingers and a warm hand sliding up his chest.

Ignis’s cock twitches hard enough to throw him when he realizes that this is an almost perfect recreation of his daydream in the hotel, and it makes something deep inside of him throb with breathless want. Gladio is pressed against his back, solid and real and so much better than what Ignis could have conjured up in his mind, when he asks, “How’re you feeling?”

He’s panting against Gladio’s sheets, his legs spread invitingly, practically begging Gladio to slide into him. He nods and Gladio pulls out his fingers, but he only has to mourn the emptiness briefly as Gladio slicks up his cock.

Gladio’s fingers dig into him, and he rubs the tip against Ignis’s hole teasingly, likes to watch the way it makes him moan and buck his hips back. He builds a small rhythm that way, sliding his cock along the cleft of his ass, his cockhead occasionally catching the rim of Ignis’s entrance, and it drives him _insane_. But eventually, temptation wins him over, and he slowly begins to push in, and it breaks Ignis apart piece by piece, moaning shakily as Gladio stretches and fills him the way he’s been thinking about since he left.

On his end, the sensation isn’t that much different than it normally is, but the thrill comes from Gladio’s reactions, how he’s got his head bowed against Ignis’s shoulders, his hands flexing against his hips. He bottoms out with a strangled sound, and Ignis slides his hands up Gladio’s forearms soothingly when the other man pauses to center himself.

“Holding up?” he asks, though he barely thinks he could answer that question himself.

Gladio’s breaths fan out against his back. “It’s different,” he chokes, and Ignis can feel him twitch _hard_ against his insides, and it knocks the breath out of him. “I missed you so much, I missed this, I… _fuck_ , Ignis, it’s so good.”

Ignis rolls his hips back experimentally, and the sound Gladio makes is surprised and guttural. “Prove it,” Ignis challenges him, and that sends Gladio into a frenzy, because he draws out nearly all the way, only to slam back in full force, harder than Ignis has ever felt him. The ecstasy of it manifests in flashes of white in his vision, and Gladio repeats the motion, a full pull out, a _brutal_ snap in, and just this on its own is almost too much for Ignis to handle. Then, Gladio begins building a tempo with it.

It starts slow, Gladio absolutely _luxuriating_ in the full, complete drag of it, but the speed ramps up so quickly and so effortlessly that Ignis is convinced that it might actually knock him out. His mouth has gone slack against the mattress, gasping for breath as Gladio rails him within an inch of his life, and Gladio’s bent over his back, biting at his shoulder and fingers digging bruises into his thighs.

His cock is bobbing ignored between his legs, but all he can focus on is wringing the sheets with his hands as Gladio fills him up over and over and over again, hardly giving his prostate a moment’s reprieve, the assault on it shooting pleasure through Ignis’s body like one earthquake after another.

He can feel himself beginning to seize up, and he tries to warn Gladio, grabbing at his hand again, but all Gladio does it move it to lie over Ignis’s chest, pressing into his heartbeat as the power of his hips rocks the bed. Ignis covers it with his own and the feeling, the _words_ , flood through him again, and inside his chest, it feels like a star collapsing. His climax hits him so hard that his vision goes black for a second, and he can feel himself moaning, shouting, _something_ , but it doesn’t register in his own ears. The next thing he’s aware of, though, is the way his whole body tightens with it, and Gladio practically _roars_ , burying himself up to the hilt inside of Ignis and coming hard enough to shake them both. Ignis’s eyes almost roll back at the sensation of fullness, of how complete it is, and a warmth spills inside of him that makes him push his hips back and whine, chasing after it greedily.

Gladio’s breathing hard over him as he tries to recollect himself, spots and dots burned against his eyelids, and he only distantly hears Gladio curse, but he feels the way he pulls out, because it jolts him again hard enough to get him trembling.

Gladio rolls him onto his back, and his hands find Ignis’s face, pressing kisses against his forehead and his cheeks and his eyelids and his lips. “Fuck, sorry, I got carried away.” He moves down Ignis’s body, pressing apologetic kisses against the bruises on his hips, his thighs. Ignis blinks slowly, the room finally coming back into serviceable focus. “You ask a guy to move in with you and then you nearly snap him in half.”

Ignis is _just_ coherent enough to mess with him. He tilts his head in Gladio’s direction. “Who are you?” he asks, his tone open and questioning, but he can’t help the smile that slides onto his face, and Gladio groans.

“Certifiably the worst.” Gladio laughs, and it tickles Ignis’s stomach where he’s hovering. He pulls Gladio up, positively delighting in the way the man’s weight settles over his body. “But for real, are you good? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ignis bats his hand away, but Gladio catches it, kissing the knuckles one by one. “Stop, you’re such a nuisance.” Ignis laughs. “I’m fine. I would point out that it’s a rather enthusiastic self-evaluation,” and he kisses Gladio before he continues, slowly, like he never wants to stop, “but it was very, very good.”

For a long while, they breathe in one another’s presence, trading kisses and whispering sweet words, until Ignis becomes uncomfortably aware of a twinge in his back, and a wetness between his legs. “So much for that massage,” he groans, wincing.

Gladio doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll do it again, if you want.”

But Ignis shakes his head. “A shower’s probably a better idea. Deal with the ache and the mess.” He looks at Gladio pointedly. “But I could always use some company. You know, for hot water and time saving purposes.”

“Sounds economical.”

“A simple question of efficiency.”

Gladio laughs and his hands run up and down Ignis’s sides, and there’s that look again, the one that’s all relaxed and completely open and so tender that it makes Ignis’s heart ache. He looks up at Gladio, catches the amber of his eyes, and it occurs to him that _this_ , this would be the absolute _perfect_ time, gazing up at him, sated and soft and somewhat dizzy from a phenomenal orgasm, _now_ would be a wonderful time to tell him.

But Ignis doesn’t, and he kisses Gladio, his chest full and buoyant with it. He bumps his nose against Gladio’s, and instead, he says, “It’s so good to be home.” The word _home_ is suddenly so robust, and so lush with meaning, and he pours all that sentiment, all that intention, into that one sentence, because he knows that another time will come, another opportunity will arise. It’ll always be ready for him, slumbering peacefully in his heart, and when the time is right, it’ll leave him on its own.

But right now, it’s just so good to be home.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a tiny voice in the back of mind going "yeah but what was Gladio up to that whole week" and I gotta!!!! I gotta say no!!!!!
> 
> But really, thank you all so much for reading. I look at every single comment and read it over a million times and blush and feel great for like the whole days afterwards, so your encouragement and kind words have truly meant so much to me. I hope you enjoyed!


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